


Wrap Yourself Around My Bones

by mommymuffin



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Canon Compliant, Curses, Fever, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Nogitsune Trauma, One Shot, Panic Attacks, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, Rain, Short One Shot, Supernatural Illnesses, Top Derek Hale, Wolf Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 03:03:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5480876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mommymuffin/pseuds/mommymuffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles hears a noise off to the side.</p><p>This is it. This is either a rescue or an execution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wrap Yourself Around My Bones

**Author's Note:**

> Whoa! The Archive hit two million fanworks? Let's celebrate by adding some more!! *^_^*
> 
> A quick one shot to show you all I'm still alive (and still writing Sterek~). Working on some big stuff, who knows when any of it will be done, but hopefully I will have some more one shots for you in the meantime. 
> 
> Congratulations to AO3 and fans everywhere!

The fever set in like a demon had seized Stiles' very bones. Maybe one had. It wouldn't really surprise the young man what with the supernatural turn his life had taken that fated night nearly one year ago.

 

In moments like these Stiles almost wishes he were a werewolf like his best friend so that the sickness couldn't get to him. But then, no. He's more useful as the token human. He hopes so anyway.

 

Stiles' head lolls to one side. It's not really a voluntary movement, but he goes with it. His eyes survey the room, but don't do much toward helping him figure out what happened. He's honestly not sure where he is. It looks like a decrepit cottage of sorts. There's dusty looking floorboards and vines that have been left untended creeping through the splintering walls and broken windows. Stiles doesn't think there are any houses like this in Beacon Hills. Oh, well. He's really too tired to care about that right now.

 

Some time passes and he remains alone. No bad guys come in to finish him off, but no good guys come either. He wonders where Scott and Malia and Kira are. Did they come with him to...wherever here is? Can they track him if they didn't?

 

Some more time passes and Stiles is really starting to doubt his odds of being found.

 

The fever is debilitating. It feels like lava moving through his veins, thick and sluggish and so, so hot. His skin prickles with chills despite this and even thinking about moving causes a wave of nausea to assault him. His bones feel kind of rubbery, his joints are achy, and he's pretty sure he's sweating enough to fill the school swimming pool.

 

Stiles twitches a finger and it's pathetic really the severe jolt of pain that shoots up his arm at the movement. He hisses and winces and feels sick because, _dammit_ , he tried to move again even though he knows that is just not happening right now.

 

He hears a noise off to the side, near where he thinks a door should be, but can't turn his head to confirm one way or another.

 

 _This is it_ , he thinks. _This is either a rescue...or an execution._

 

He sincerely hopes it's the former, but he's a realist and doesn't put too much effort into it. If it is an attacker, Stiles can't lift a finger against them. Literally. So he just lays there and waits.

 

There's a scraping sound, like wood being dragged in a way it disagrees with, then a clatter, followed by a rustling, and then finally the very light sound of feet padding across the ground.

 

Stiles quickly realizes "feet" wasn't necessarily the correct term, because it's a wolf that's standing in front of him a beat later. A big, black, beautiful wolf.

 

So he's going to be eaten then.

 

Wait, no...there are no wolves in California.

 

Then again Stiles isn't all that sure he's _in_ California anymore.

 

Stiles' foggy mind makes an effort to work through all the ways a wolf could possibly be standing in front of him, but it doesn't get very far, too muddled to follow a train of thought. Instead he lays there motionless and squints up at the wolf in confusion, curiosity really getting the better of him here. Or maybe he's just too tired to be afraid.

 

The wolf's eyes flash blue like a thousand volts of lightning and Stiles' waning subconscious thinks _Oh_.

 

It's Derek.

 

That's right. Derek can turn into a wolf now. Stiles' mouth attempts to pull into a smile as he giggles breathlessly. _That's so cool_. He would say that out loud, but he's pretty sure speech is off the table right now. Just like basically every other standard function.

 

Derek steps closer and sniffs at Stiles, up and down his torso, in the crook of his neck, in his ear--which Stiles would wholly protest if he could.

 

The wolf seems to come to some sort of decision, because in the next blink the wolf is a man and a very naked Derek is kneeling over him with a soft look of concern on his face.

 

_That's kind of a weird look for Derek to be directing at me._

 

"Stiles…" Derek says, then hesitates like he's not sure what to say. He goes with, "What the hell did you get yourself into?"

 

 _No clue_ , Stiles thinks.

 

"Come on, let's get you out of here," Derek says and lifts him up.

 

As delicate as Derek is being with him, Stiles still suffers from being moved. His vision lurches violently and he spasms before twisting to the side and vomiting all over the floor. Probably should have seen that coming.

 

Derek waits patiently until Stiles' teary gasps cease. He soothes a hand over his back and then moves to lift him up again, slowly and so, so carefully.

 

Stiles forgets how gentle Derek can be when he wants to be. It's usually all harsh and sudden movements with them. They dropped the threats a long time ago, but still, most of their interaction is limited to pulling each other out of danger, sometimes quite literally _pulling_.

 

Now though the werewolf is all warmth and protection and comfort. Solid lines and steady breathing in his ear. It's nice. Stiles wishes it was like this more often between them.

 

Derek steps out of the cottage and sets out at light, steady jog. Stiles gives the little rambling shack a glance and is certain he's never seen it before in his life.

 

They run through the forest twilight for about ten minutes, it starts to rain after about three. The rain feels nice and cool on Stiles' overheated skin. It washes away the sweat and just _almost_ makes him feel like there's nothing wrong with him for a few seconds. But then the cold rain continues to pour down over them and the chill seeps in through his clothes, past his skin, and straight into his veins.

 

It floods his system. He begins to shiver and Derek mutters "Hold on, just hold on," to him over and over again. His voice rumbles in his chest and Stiles feels it against his arm and his side. Derek's grip on him tightens and he picks up the pace ever so slightly.

 

They reach the treeline and Derek makes a slight detour to a backpack that was hidden in the forest bramble. He sets Stiles down against a tree, jerks open the backpack, and bundles Stiles up in a jacket the teen assumes belongs to Derek. Then the man slips on some soaking wet clothes, shoulders the backpack, and easily fits Stiles into his arms again.

 

They run some more.

 

Stiles starts to drift in and out of consciousness. Derek eventually stops at the first motel they come across, one that looks dubious in all the worst ways. He walks up to the front desk and says, "I need you to not ask questions. One room for one night. I have cash."

 

The woman behind the desk--early fifties, badly dyed red hair, and librarian glasses--smacks her gum once and says, "One fifty."

 

Derek shuffles Stiles and the backpack around so that Stiles is leaned up against his side and he can pull his wallet out of the outer pocket of the bag. He forks over the money, the lady hands over a key, and they're on their way.

 

They reach their room. Derek fiddles the key into the lock one-handed, then kicks open the door.

 

He breezes right past the two queen beds and heads straight into the bathroom. Placing Stiles on the floor beside it, Derek turns his attention to the rust-stained tub and cranks up the hot water tap to full blast.

 

While he waits for the tub to fill, he looks at Stiles with that concerned face again. Stiles wants to tell him to stop that, but his tongue feels thick in his mouth, so he guesses he's going to have to let it slide.

 

Derek smooths Stiles' dripping-wet hair from his forehead with one of his big, warm hands, then darts out with the other hand to snatch up the backpack. He rustles around in it for a few seconds, emerging with a vial that looks distinctly "Deaton-like."

 

Sure enough the werewolf dumps the powdery contents into the slow-filling bath and explains while he stirs it with a hand, "Lydia said she cursed you. So Deaton sent all of us with a bottle of this. It should break the curse and cure your fever."

 

 _She?_ Stiles wonders.

 

But at this point his brain feels like it's swimming around in his head, so he lets that question slip away along with everything else. He's drifting in a big soupy bowl of strange light patterns for a minute or so. Next thing he knows Derek is peeling him out of both of his jackets and depositing him in the tub.

 

The water feels more like needles at first. His skin prickles sharply and his teeth clack together loudly as they chatter. It does however also shock him back into a more solid state of consciousness and his eyes start tracking Derek's movements as the were' turns off the tap and stirs the water up a bit more. Then he reaches in and grips the bottom of Stiles' shirt and pulls it right over the teen's head.

 

His big, warm hands find Stiles' arms in the murky, gray water and he rubs them once before situating Stiles in the water up to his chin. Stiles has to bend his knees to fit in the basin, so Derek turns him slightly onto his side until he's properly submerged. The werewolf grabs a folded towel and places it under the teen's head, then watches him closely as he removes his hands.

 

"How do you feel?" Derek asks, still hovering over the tub and its occupant.

 

Stiles' teeth-chattering has lessened and he tries to use words again with some success, stuttering out something that at least resembles the word 'better'.

 

"Good. Just give it a little time. Deaton's stuff should work."

 

"Wh…" Stiles tries, but apparently he used all his speech tokens on the previous word.

 

Derek seems to understand what he was getting at anyway. "What happened?" he asks with a raised eyebrow. "You don't remember anything, do you?"

 

Stiles shakes his head. Or at least he thinks he does.

 

Derek sighs and sits down beside the tub to wait for whatever is going to happen with the bathwater remedy.

 

He says, "There was a hag that came into town. Seeking out the nemeton."

 

That--That sounds vaguely familiar actually. _Hag: a human who has used dark magic to live far past their expiration date and can typically be found seeking out other nefarious means to further their lifespan_ , his mind helpfully supplies. It's beginning to feel a lot less like soup up there, thank god.

 

"She disturbed some wards you and Deaton put up around it," Derek continues. "So like an idiot you went to investigate with only Lydia as backup. You found the hag trying to take down your wards, so of course you tried to stop her. She wasn't too happy about your interference and according to Lydia she cursed the both of you. Apparently with some sort of sickness. Lydia, of course, was immune to it. The hag wasn't expecting that so to make sure we wouldn't go after her she "poofed" you to some other location to keep us busy looking for you. Lydia called, told everyone what happened, and then we all started searching."

 

Derek's voice gets kind of quiet as he says, "The problem with you disappearing into thin air is that it didn't leave a trail to track. We took a chance and followed the scent trail the hag left behind on her way into Beacon Hills. We split up when it turned old and too hard to follow. I managed to pick up her scent again, but only after I shifted into my wolf form. The scent was really faint, but it led me to that cottage she dumped you in."

 

Stiles has finally stopped shivering. The water is blissfully tepid around him and the aroma of sage and lilac and ginger is incredibly soothing. He still feels a chill somewhere deep inside him, one he suspects is remnant of the curse rather than the rain.

 

"H-how long?" Stiles whispers. He thinks his mouth may finally be properly working again, even if his throat is dry and hoarse.

 

Derek seems to understand that too and he fetches a bottle of water from the backpack and offers it to Stiles. Stiles takes it with unsteady hands, but doesn't need Derek's help to drink from it.

 

Derek takes the bottle away when Stiles is done with it and Stiles slips his hands back into the water.

 

"How long?" he asks again, much stronger this time. "How long was I missing?"

 

"Nine hours," Derek answers.

 

"The others?"

 

"I don't know. My cell phone is water logged and I'm guessing so is yours if it's still in your pocket. I don't have anyone's number memorized."

 

"Call the Sheriff's station. Dial the operator."

 

Derek blinks like he hadn't thought of that. He probably hadn't. Who uses the operator anymore?

 

Derek nods, stands, tells him, "Don't pass out," and leaves the room.

 

Stiles can hear the faint murmur of his voice as he speaks, but he can't make out any words. He takes stock of his body, judges how everything is feeling. He's pleased to find that he's thinking clearly, that his bones no longer ache, and that he doesn't feel feverish or nauseous anymore. He still feels a tad supernaturally cold, but he figures another few minutes in the warm water will help that along.

 

Derek comes back in a few minutes later.

 

"Your dad is calling Scott to let him know you're okay and to call everybody else back. He said to stay here and rest for the night. They'll come get us tomorrow."

 

"Where is _here_ exactly?"

 

"Redding."

 

_Redding?_

 

"Redding is thirty miles from Beacon Hills," Stiles says stupidly.

 

Derek nods. "I know."

 

"Did you...did you walk _thirty miles_ to come find me?" Stiles asks incredulously.

 

Derek shrugs. "I guess. I was a wolf for most of it. It's not really the same."

 

"It's still a lot."

 

Derek shrugs again.

 

Stiles rolls his eyes. He's clearly feeling a lot better.

 

"How long am I supposed to stay in this stuff anyway?" he asks.

 

"Deaton said until the curse broke."

 

"Well...is it broken?"

 

Derek leans in and _sniffs_ him. "Smells like it."

 

Stiles makes a face at the treatment, a disparaging comment on his tongue that he manages to hold in at the last moment. "That's...yeah, okay. Well...the water is not really all that comfortable anymore, it's actually kind of icky, so I would like to, uh, shower this muck off, I guess."

 

Derek digs in the backpack and pulls out a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.

 

"You can change into these."

 

"Thanks," Stiles says and moves to stand.

 

Derek grabs one of his elbows and makes extra sure that Stiles isn't about to pass out and brain himself on the porcelain before letting go. Stiles gives him a nod to assure him he's fine. Derek unplugs the drain and turns on the faucet again. He even goes so far as to adjust the water temperature for Stiles. Stiles only just manages not to roll his eyes again.

 

Then Derek leaves him to it.

 

Stiles strips out of his atrociously clingy jeans and boxers and tosses them in with the shirt and jackets Derek flung into a corner. He stands under the spray for a long, long time.; he can't seem to get rid of the chill in his bones. It's like someone is twisting their ice, cold fingers into him and freezing him from the inside out. No amount of warm water is curing it.

 

When he dries off, dresses, and steps out of the bathroom, Derek is laying on top of one of the beds watching TV. He's got a fresh set of clothes on, sweatpants and a t-shirt also, and his hair is still slightly damp. His eyes immediately cut to Stiles. He watches him like he's waiting for him to say something and well, Stiles is never one to disappoint there.

 

"I…" Stiles begins, rubbing his fingers together where his hands hang at his sides. They feel slightly cold to the touch, in spite of his steaming shower. Then he decides _to hell with it_. "I'm cold."

 

Derek sits up abruptly, mouth turned down in a frown and eyebrows pressed close together.

 

"Did the herbs not work?" he asks. "Are you hypothermic from the rain?"

 

"No, I don't think that's it…I don't feel sick anymore, I just...feel cold."

 

Derek nods like that makes sense.

 

_Does it?_

 

"Come here," he beckons with a jerk of his head, moving to turn down the covers on the bed.

 

Stiles glides over to him feeling sort of like a zombie more than a person right now. He lays down in the spot Derek created for him. It's still warm from where the werewolf was laying. It feels good and Stiles sinks into it.

 

He listens as Derek pads over to the bathroom, flicks the light off, then pads back over to the beds.

 

He's surprised when Derek climbs into the other side of the same bed as Stiles, scoots in close, and wraps him up in his big, warm arms.

 

Softly, Derek says, "Deaton mentioned that...the longer it took us to find you...the closer to death you would be…"

 

Stiles isn't sure what he's supposed to do with that information--they obviously found him before he died, he's still alive, thank you very much--but then he puts the pieces together and gets the whole picture. The whole, horrifying picture.

 

The frigid sting that he feels in his very being isn't an aftereffect of the rain _or_ the curse. It's a side effect of being near-to-death. The sickness that the curse brought upon him had had time to start destroying his body. Stiles has never viewed a fever as something that could kill. It was always treatable with medicine and cold packs. But Stiles hadn't had any of that out there in the middle of the woods. He had been alone and _dying_. The fever had been carving him away from the inside out and now it's left a cold block of ice in its wake as a reminder that it had almost succeeded in erasing him completely.

 

The chill he feels is death's cold hand gripping his bones tight.

 

This is just like that time with--

 

He's brought up short by a formerly stubbornly-buried memory, unearthed by the ghostly sensation of a feeling he's known before.

 

"Derek…" Stiles whispers.

 

"What?" Derek mumbles.

 

"D-Derek…" Stiles repeats, urgent.

 

"Stiles?" Derek asks, pulling back to look at his face.

 

"I was dying."

 

The werewolf's brow pinches. "Yes. But you're _okay_ now."

 

"No, I was _dying_. It wasn't just a close call, it was actually h-happening-- _Derek_."

 

"Stiles," Derek says, trying to calm the boy. He gets his hands on Stiles' arms, grips them firmly, looks straight into his eyes, the white of them stark in the gloom. "Stiles, it's okay. You're okay now. It's over."

 

"Derek," Stiles practically chokes. He's white as a sheet. "You don't understand. I-if I--If I get that close--if I'm ever that close to death again, he-- _he could get back in._ "

 

Derek stares into Stiles' wide, scared eyes, confused for a second or two. Then he gets it.

 

"The nogitsune…"

 

Stiles nods his head weakly. "W-what if he got in, what if he slipped in through the goddamn cracks between life and death again, what if he's _there_ again, what if he--"

 

" _Stiles_ ," Derek borderline shouts, breaking through Stiles' panicked whispers. "The nogitsune is _not_ in you. It is trapped in a little wooden box, safely tucked away _forever_. He _cannot_ get you again. Do you understand? Stiles, answer me!"

 

Stiles just stares at nothing, mouth gaping and eyes terrified.

 

"Stiles!" Derek demands the boy's attention and shakes him once by the arms.

 

When this doesn't work, Derek goes all out: peels his lips back and _roars_.

 

The walls rattle and Stiles startles, derailed from his spiralling despair. He gasps and shudders and Derek grips his arms even tighter. Stiles' hands curl in the other man's t-shirt.

 

"You're fine. You're fine," Derek repeats. Stiles nods along.

 

His eyes are downcast, focused somewhere between their bodies. It's another moment before he seems to get ahold of himself. When he does his head stills, forehead finding a resting spot on Derek's sternum. He's still not looking at Derek.

 

Derek relaxes his hands, strokes up and down Stiles' arm that isn't pressed into the mattress.

 

"You're okay," he murmurs.

 

Stiles snorts. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

 

"That wasn't very convincing," Derek comments.

 

"It's as good as you're getting right now, buddy."

 

Derek's lips quirk. Now that's a familiar Stiles.

 

Then Stiles laughs apropo of nothing.

 

"What's so funny?" Derek wants to know.

 

"Just...this. Us," Stiles says, shuffling a hand to indicate the two of them.

 

Derek raises a brow. He wishes Stiles would look up.

 

"I'm not finding it particularly funny," he says slowly.

 

"Don't you though?" Stiles asks. His voice is doing something funny. "I mean, c'mon, Derek. You and me of all people. Here?"

 

"Here?"

 

"Here, Derek," Stiles says. His fingers tighten in the soft fabric of Derek's shirt, then he says, "When we first met...we hated each other. And then...look at us now."

 

Derek sees what he means now. But still, "I never hated you, Stiles."

 

"Yeah…" Stiles whispers, "I never hated you either."

 

Then it's quiet. That's a strange thing for it to be between the two of them. Stiles _always_ babbles when he's alone with Derek. More often than not it's banter that Derek participates in too, which is odd too, considering Derek's still not big on carrying on conversation. Somehow it's always easy to volley remarks back and forth with Stiles though.

 

"Thank you, Derek," Stiles says softly.

 

That's not something they do very often either: thank each other. There's a lot the two have done for each other, but expressing gratitude often gets left by the wayside. Tonight though, the words just seem to spill out from Stiles' lips.

 

This is rapidly becoming too intimate a situation for the two of them.

 

Derek pulls back. He gets control of himself with a deep, but silent breath. "I should go sleep in the other bed."

 

He moves to do just that, but a hand on his bicep stops him. Stiles _still_ won't look at him; it's starting to worry Derek.

 

"Stay," Stiles says, eyes trained on Derek's chest.

 

"Stiles," Derek pleads. He can't do this; but he doesn't think he can say no either.

 

"Derek." Stiles looks up then and Derek's breath catches in his throat. Derek doesn't know what he was bracing himself for, but it wasn't this. It wasn't the _trust_ he sees there in Stiles' eyes. Soft and sure warm whiskey, a color that at some point became a comfort to Derek.

 

And really that's what this is, isn't it? Comfort.

 

Found here in each other's arms.

 

"Derek," Stiles whispers softly, and it does something heady to Derek. "Stay."

 

Derek can't deny this Stiles: this vulnerable and tragic and broken-all-to-pieces-just-like-him Stiles.

 

So Derek stays.

 

His hands circle Stiles' back, clutching at him indulgently. Stiles' own delicate-strong hands slide up to entrench themselves in Derek's hair. Then they're kissing.

 

Stiles' mouth opens immediately, hot and greedy. Derek can't deny him this either and lets Stiles slip his tongue inside, meets him with equal fervor; Derek is willing to give Stiles whatever he needs tonight.

 

It's not long before Derek rolls over on top of him. One firm thigh shoves into the space between Stiles' legs and Stiles rolls up into the solid pressure and moans divinely. Derek gasps at the sensation of Stiles' erection grinding into his thigh, at the sound of Stiles' desire made clear.

 

Without even meaning to, Derek's hands wind up under Stiles' shirt and then his teeth wind up on Stiles' jaw bone and somehow-- _somehow_ \--Stiles winds up with his hands down the back of Derek's pants.

 

"Oh god, you're not wearing any underwear," Stiles mutters.

 

"Didn't have any," Derek says, looping a finger in the waistband of Stiles' sweats. "Neither did you."

 

"No, I didn't," Stiles agrees breathily.

 

It's at that that Derek starts working Stiles' pants down, not far, but just enough to reveal the patch of dark hair there. Derek's mouth latches onto the trail where it begins at Stiles' navel.

 

Stiles pants. "Derek...Derek."

 

"What?" Derek says, mouth still on Stiles' stomach, hands sliding up again, under the shirt to palm at his nipples.

 

" 've you...have you been with a guy before?"

 

Derek nods, stubble scraping Stiles' flesh and wringing a shiver out of him. "Yes."

 

"Oh-- _uhn_ \--Okay. I...I haven't, so…"

 

Derek's head pops up then, eyes pinning to Stiles'. He slides up the young man's body, laying his weight reassuringly over the the slimmer form.

 

"I've got you," he mutters against Stiles' mouth.

 

Stiles nods. "I know you do."

 

"You want top or bottom?" Derek asks.

 

Stiles doesn't even think about the possibility of topping Derek, not least because that's never an idea he thought was even _remotely_ realistic. That's not what he needs right now anyway. He needs to be the one held, not the one doing the holding. He needs to _forget_. He needs to have it all fucked right out of him. And Derek is just the one to do it.

 

"Bottom. Please," he says, a little desperately.

 

Derek nods again, then leans back, shucks Stiles' shirt right off of him. It goes, flung, into some random corner.

 

"Jesus," Stiles utters, when Derek licks a stripe up his sternum.

 

Derek takes a moment, Stiles notes, to suck and bite at each and every mole he can locate on Stiles' torso. Stiles' toes curl when he nips at one over his ribcage. Stiles wonders if Derek has fantasized about this too.

 

 _Not_ that Stiles had ever taken his fantasies about Derek seriously; Derek had been the object he'd chosen to fixate on when he's started discovering himself and his not so straight-and-narrow sexual orientation. Is it any wonder really that he had a few wet dreams about the guy?

 

But then Derek became more than an object and Stiles' fantasies about the man had taken a decidedly different turn.

 

"Derek," Stiles urges, clasping at the werewolf's shoulder blades through his shirt.

 

Derek gets it--like he always does with Stiles.

 

He sits up, peels his own shirt off quickly. Then he crooks his fingers into Stiles' waistband and drags the sweats off of him in one clean pull. He lands on his feet at the foot of the bed and stoops to yank his own pants off. Then he darts away into the bathroom. Stiles barely gets a glimpse of the _finest_ rear before he's gone and back again. Then he's getting a different view and _that_ one's not bad at all either.

 

"Derek?" Stiles questions as Derek climbs back over him, covers him, kisses him.

 

"Lotion," Derek murmurs.

 

"O-oh--Oh!" Stiles stutters, when Derek lines their hips up just right, nestled in the cradle of Stiles' pelvis. " _Jesus_ , Derek."

 

"Uhuh," Derek agrees, rocking them together.

 

Their cocks ache, hard and leaking, fluid smearing as they slide against one another.

 

If Derek had more time--if Derek had the right--he would savor this (he already couldn't help himself with the moles). He would place his lips around Stiles' head and suck and tease and _taste_. He would lick lower and penetrate Stiles with his tongue. He would make him _beg_ for release.

 

But that's not what Stiles needs right now.

 

So Derek continues rutting against him, flicking the cap of the lotion open with a thumb and then slicking his fingers and their cocks with it. He doesn't waste any more time, reaches down and around, and presses the blunt tip of his middle finger against Stiles' entrance.

 

Stiles' breath hitches before he's even pushed in, and when he does, Stiles cries out like he's been wounded. Derek can't fathom the sound he's going to make when it's Derek's cock inside him, if _that's_ the sound he made for one finger.

 

Derek has only pumped in-and-out a few times before Stiles is already saying, "More, Derek. More."

 

Derek obliges. A second finger joins the first and Stiles arches into it, loving the stretch, never imagining this could feel so good when it was someone else's hand.

 

"More, Derek."

 

Derek sinks in a third finger and Stiles' lower back spasms.

 

" _More_ , Derek."

 

Derek hesitates. "Stiles."

 

" _Derek_."

 

Stiles argues everything in just that one word.

 

Derek's pinky squeezes in.

 

Stiles' voice breaks on his next gasp.

 

Derek pumps him gently, smoothly, stretching him. He bends his fingers in a slow, sweet curl and Stiles arches right off the bed. Derek takes the presented opportunity and hooks his free hand around Stiles' back, leans their weight back onto his thighs, and wraps his lips around the extended column of Stiles' jugular.

 

Upright now, Stiles throws his head back fully, miles and miles of an irresistible throat before Derek's teeth. It's intimate in a way Derek's fingers in Stiles' ass isn't even.

 

Derek is careful not to leave any marks on Stiles' neck. He wants to-- _god,_ how he wants to--but he knows better. Tonight is for tonight only and any proof come morning would be bad news.

 

He also knows better than to ask if Stiles is ready; it's clear he is and Stiles is not about courtesy tonight. Really, is he ever though?

 

So Derek uses his supernatural strength: he withdraws his fingers, which causes Stiles to keen pitifully, but then the werewolf's hands wrap around Stiles' slender hips and lift. Stiles' hands rest on Derek's shoulders, steadying them. Then Derek lines up and slowly lets Stiles sink back down.

 

The way Stiles' fingernails rake across Derek's neck would leave marks if Derek's healing didn't erase them almost instantly. Derek fills him up _so good_. It's perfect; just right; just what he needed. Stiles gasps--once, twice--sucking in air, then he's fully seated on Derek's cock and he drags Derek's face up by the ears and kisses him, filthy and thorough.

 

When he's done defiling Derek's mouth, he tilts his head and drags his mouth wetly across Derek's stubble until it rests over his ear.

 

" _Hard,_ Derek," he whispers, and Derek nods.

 

Then the older man grips Stiles' ribs and holds him in place while he shifts back.

 

The first thrust if jagged, like a stutter, like Derek wasn't quite ready for the overwhelming sensation of Stiles' contracting passage sliding around him.

 

The second thrust is firmer, deeper, like riding a wave all the way to its crest and back down.

 

The third thrust is what Stiles was looking for: forceful, a punch to the gut, a vacuum that sucks out all of Stiles' air.

 

As is the fourth…

 

The fifth…

 

The sixth…

 

Stiles can't seem to take a whole breath, but he can't be bothered to care either. He drops his head to Derek's shoulder, unable to support it any longer; his fingers tug harshly at Derek's hair, he can't stop running his hands through it.

 

" _Derek_."

 

" _Stiles_."

 

Derek can't help it when his fingers dig in hard enough to bruise Stiles' fragile ribcage (he tried so hard not to leave marks, _honest_ ). He can't help it either when he turns his head and drags his teeth along Stiles' jaw, nips at his chin possessively.

 

Stiles' arms latch around Derek's shoulders suddenly and his mouth nearly mauls Derek's. It's hard to kiss with the rocking motion of their bodies, though they try their best. It's satisfying anyway.

 

A sharp cry signals Stiles' orgasm and a deep groan from Derek a few beats later marks his own.

 

As they come down, Derek lays Stiles back on the mattress, strokes his hands up Stiles' neck and into his hair, then around to cup his face.

 

Blearily, Stiles focuses on his bed partner's face--and sees everything he's ever wanted from Derek there.

 

It's enough to bring a loopy smile to Stiles' lips and he drags Derek in for another few lazy kisses.

 

It's worked: Derek has succeeded in chasing away the chill that seized Stiles' bones--his searing mouth and warm hands and big heart have taken its place.

 

Tomorrow, Stiles will muzzily remember falling asleep in Derek's arms.

 

Tomorrow, everything will be back to normal.

  
  


~~~

 

Stiles wakes to the sound of the phone ringing.

 

"Ugh. No. Early," he whines into his pillow. For a moment everything feels perfectly normal. Then his mind trips and he remembers yesterday.

 

Stiles' eyes fly open.

 

He sees it's the hotel phone ringing and snatches it up quickly. The sound of the shower running alerts him to where exactly Derek has got off to. He spares a glance toward the bathroom and the werewolf within, wondering how this morning is going to play out. Trying to sound calm Stiles says into the receiver, "Hello?"

 

"Stiles," comes his dad's voice, full of relief and gratefulness.

 

"Dad!" Stiles chirps.

 

"I'm so glad you're okay, son."

 

"Yeah, me too. Sorry I worried everybody."

 

"Try not to do it again, huh?"

 

Stiles grins. "No promises, Daddio."

 

"Yeah, I know," the Sheriff says. Switching gears, he queries, "Derek there?"

 

"Uh, yeah. In the shower."

 

Sheriff Stilinski must pick up on something in Stiles' voice. "Everything all right with you two?"

 

"Yeah," Stiles says, maybe a little too quickly. "Yeah. Fine."

 

The Sheriff pauses, but then says, "Okay. Parrish is coming to get you. I think Scott and Lydia are tagging along. I'm at work, coordinating looking for that hag that did this to you."

 

"Aw, Dad, no. Don't get some poor innocent cop killed because he doesn't know what he's up against!"

 

"I'm not. Strict orders to not engage."

 

"Right, okay. They better listen."

 

"They will, Stiles. We've lost too many already."

 

Stiles gets quiet at that.

 

The shower stops running.

 

"Stiles?" the Sheriff asks, sensing his son's unease, even over the phone.

 

Stiles reluctantly admits, "I got pretty close there, Dad. To the edge, you know…" His father knows. "It scared me. I thought he would get back in..."

 

"But he didn't," the Sheriff says adamantly. "He's locked away, Stiles."

 

"Yeah. Yeah, he is. I just freaked out a little. It's all right. Derek had me."

 

"Derek's a good man," the Sheriff says, unnecessarily in Stiles' opinion. He knows that.

 

"Yeah. Yeah, he is." Stiles says this last with his eyes trained on the very man, who just stepped out of the bathroom. Derek is wearing yesterday's sweats and t-shirt, likely having nothing else to wear in that bag. Framed by the light behind him, he looks dark and shadowy, like a monster lurking. But Stiles knows that's just a trick of the light.

 

"Derek's out of the shower, Dad. I'm gonna go take one now," Stiles says.

 

"Okay. I'll see you when you get back. We've got the Jeep at the station for you."

 

"Thanks, Dad. Love you."

 

"Love you too, Stiles."

 

They hang up.

 

Stiles and Derek just stare at each other.

 

It's not awkward, Stiles is pleased to note. But there's definitely _something_ there, something hanging in the air between them. Whatever it is, it's good. So Stiles doesn't mind leaving his comments to himself for once.

 

"You done?" he asks instead.

 

Derek nods. "Clothes are on the sink."

 

"Thanks," Stiles says, casually, but really not so casually at all.

 

"You're welcome," Derek says for probably the first time ever since their acquaintance.

 

It makes Stiles smile and he laughs shaking his head as he passes Derek to go into the bathroom.

 

After Stiles' shower, they grab cheap coffee and stale bagels from the complimentary breakfast in the hotel lobby, then watch Saturday morning cartoons on the television until Parrish, Scott, and Lydia arrive.

 

It's a warm, simple morning between them.

 

Stiles realizes this isn't so normal for them--nothing about this morning has been--but it _is_ right.

 

(Derek knows it, too. They're both privately glad to see that everything has been set right between them somehow or another).

 

Whatever comfort they found in each other's arms last night may have been wrought from terror and peril and _need_ \--their usual, twisted normal--but whatever they have on this new day is anything but.

 

Stiles doesn't think he _needs_ slow mornings like this with Derek, definitely not the way he needed Derek last night. But he thinks he might want them all the same. It might be awkward. It would definitely be hard. There's a lot of baggage on both sides of the relationship there, not least of all the fact that Stiles dated Derek's cousin.

 

But all the same, Stiles thinks they could make it work. No, actually Stiles thinks they _would_ make it work.

 

After all, that's kind of what Stiles and Derek do.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> http://mommymuffin.tumblr.com/


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